


Inexplicable (Inescapable)

by ClutchHedonist



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bioluminescence, Choking, Dom/sub, Monsterfucker Gerard Keay, Nosebleed, Other, Synesthesia, Trans Gerard Keay, and brats need taming, inappropriate use of The Beholding, michael has a whole grab bag of genitals, michael is a brat, mild body horror, we all know this, you can't stop me from loving bioluminescent come don't even try it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:22:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26978782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClutchHedonist/pseuds/ClutchHedonist
Summary: The leather cuffs drop, still tightly fastened, into the tousled sheets. With pursed lips, Gerry watches Michael’s wrists blur back into place.“Brat.” He grumbles.Michael purrs like branches scraping a windowpane as Gerry runs a palm along the long curve of its neck, “It isn’t my fault.” It protests.“Oh?” Gerry arches one dark brow.“Circles, bookburner.” It retorts, tapping one of the abandoned cuffs with a sharp fingertip.“What about them?”Michael wrinkles its nose, “Fixed points at fixed distances.”“Ah. They’re sensible, aren’t they?” Gerry hums, “Suppose you’d rather I ask you to divide by zero while I’m fucking you?”“It couldn’t hurt.”
Relationships: Gerard Keay/Michael | The Distortion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 167





	Inexplicable (Inescapable)

**Author's Note:**

> CW: The word 'cunt' is used to refer to both Gerard's and (sometimes) Michael's genitals during this fic.

The leather cuffs drop, still tightly fastened, into the tousled sheets. With pursed lips, Gerry watches Michael’s wrists blur back into place.

“Brat.” He grumbles.

Michael purrs like branches scraping a windowpane as Gerry runs a palm along the long curve of its neck, “It isn’t my fault.” It protests.

“Oh?” Gerry arches one dark brow.

“Circles, bookburner.” It retorts, tapping one of the abandoned cuffs with a sharp fingertip.

“What about them?”

Michael wrinkles its nose, “Fixed points at fixed distances.”

“Ah. They’re sensible, aren’t they?” Gerry hums, “Suppose you’d rather I ask you to divide by zero while I’m fucking you?”

“It couldn’t hurt.”

Gerry brings the pad of his thumb to the place a human’s windpipe would be on its throat. Michael trills with pleasure as he presses it down.

“Oh, if I truly needed to breathe that would be lovely.” It coos.

“Of course you don’t.” Gerry grunts.

Michael’s brows knit, “I am trying.” It insists.

“Trying to what?” Gerry asks as he scrapes his teeth along its shoulder.

Michael shudders, pixelating briefly, “To be good.”

Gerry gives a low chuckle against its skin, “Are you?”

“I- hhh-” It exhales harshly as he sinks his teeth into the spot where its shoulder flows into its neck.

Gerry hears its voice catch on his name, seizes its slender hips and pushes them down into the bed. It gives a cracked whine as its face smears out of focus. He watches it, static crackling in his ears. Its edges are nebulous, now, shifting beneath his hands, threatening to break his hold on it.

“Be still.” He commands.

It laughs helplessly, “C-Can’t, I can’t-”

Gerry draws in a deep breath. The sound of his own pulse is a hammer strike against his temples. Michael’s smile has slid beyond the confines of its face, begging, imploring. It wants this. Gerry knows that it wants this. All he needs is a way to give it to it.

He busies his mouth leaving colorful bruises along its collarbone, and Michael shakes beneath him. Somewhere near the headboard, one of its hands has flowed over the edge of the bed. Gerry plants a hand in the center of its chest and pushes back onto his knees.

“Michael. Here. Come here.” He tells it.

Michael’s voice is an ungrounded wire, “‘Here’ implies time and place and-”

“Here.” He grits and digs in his nails.

It’s rare that he breaks Michael’s skin, thick and incomprehensible as it is. Trickles of wet light begin to creep out beneath his fingertips. Michael groans itself a hair’s breadth closer to definite.

"Yesss." It hisses like grated glass.

"You really do want to, don't you?" Gerry muses as he leans in to kiss over the glistening crescents his nails have left behind.

"Perhaps." Michael breathes.

It's remarkably close to a straight answer. Gerry can feel its chest trembling against his lips, a faint tremor that buzzes and crackles. He takes a deep breath.

"Then show me your wrist." He says softly.

Michael gives him a quizzical glance, but offers him one long arm nonetheless. Gerry presses a kiss into its palm, then lays it down above Michael's head.

"Tell me where it is." He whispers.

Michael blinks, or at least Gerry is fairly certain that it blinks. Glitches, perhaps. Its swirling eyes spark open-closed-open-closed.

"What?" Its voice is very small, far away.

Gerry draws in another breath and fixes it with his gaze, "Tell me where your wrist is."

Michael yelps, a startled clamor of feedback that shatters the lightbulb in the lamp on the nightstand. Its body arcs up off the bed as if electrified. All at once, the arm above its head is rigid, unmoving except to quiver. Michael tries to grip it with the opposite hand, and his spindly fingers pass right through it.

It isn't afraid of him. It knows, it has to know, that harming it -truly harming it- is the furthest thing from his mind. But there's an intrigued warble in its voice when it speaks, "You are forcing me to perceive myself.”

"A bit." Gerry admits wryly.

"This is very cruel, bookburner."

"This is discipline." Gerry counters. He wraps a hand around the soft impression of Michael’s other wrist and draws it up with the first, “That one.”

“‘That one’ what?” Michael tries.

Static crackles in the air between them when Gerry speaks again, “Tell me where the other wrist is.”

Michael is wailing, now, thrashing in the iron grip of realness that surrounds its wrists. A smile plays across Gerry’s lips as he watches it bend and bow and twist and hiss. Faintly glowing beads of liquid begin to pearl at the tip of its already hard cock.

“Enjoying yourself?” Gerry says, one corner of his mouth tugging back.

“I do not have a self.” Michael pants. There’s a swirling, bluish blush high in its cheeks that is beginning to drift down along the hollow of its throat.

“Enough to have this.” Gerry points out as he slides a hand between its legs.

Michael whimpers at the friction. The sound echoes off all of the walls at once. Gerry allows it only a moment of gratification before pulling back. Its snarl is twisting metal.

“I wonder what I should do with you?” Gerry says. His hand snakes its way up Michael’s chest to tug at one nipple. It flushes and hardens beneath the attention.

Michael presses itself up into the abuse, “A-A compelling question.” It breathes. Gerry plays the pad of his thumb over the other, and it grits its sharp teeth.

“There’s so much I could do.” Gerry presses on, and his eyes flick up to meet Michael’s, “So much you’d let me do, like this.”

Its toes curl in the sheets, “I-I might, I think.”

“I would say ‘be honest’, but-” Gerry chuckles, “I think I’d much prefer to make you that way.”

“I am never honest.” It lies.

“Where’s your throat, Michael?”

“ _Hhhk_ -”

Its eyes grow wide. Gerry sets an affectionate palm against its neck. When he squeezes this time, it brings luminous tears to Michael’s eyes.

“It’s different, now, isn’t it?” Gerry teases, “Now that it’s very nearly real.”

“It is unexpected.” Michael gags.

The sheets between its legs are becoming rapidly drenched with luminescent droplets of precome. There’ll be no saving them, now. Gerry swipes two fingertips through it, light staining the skin as he lifts them to Michael’s mouth. It opens at once to let him in, sucks at his fingers as though starved. Gerry feels his breath hitch.

“What’s this? No biting today?” He notes, voice already half-ragged.

By way of answer, Michael swallows. The motion tugs Gerry’s fingers down deeper, into the wet heat of its throat, and he can’t keep from groaning.

“Fuck.” He grits.

The still-surreal parts of Michael’s body melt and shift invitingly, its legs spreading to offer Gerry the flushed and soaking cunt now between them. Gerry swallows, draws his fingers back from its grasping throat with a squelch. Its pleased sigh quickly becomes a gutted moan when he drives both into it at once.

“Oh.” It warbles, spine coiling, “ _Oh_.”

It’s hot inside, almost painfully so, and Gerry swears that he can taste the panoply of electric color that ripples through its body. His skin seems to judder and hum. His fingers set a quick, brutal rhythm that Michael’s hips snap up to match eagerly. Its face contorts in pleasure; the features shift and swirl.

“Gerry!” It keens as it quakes beneath his onslaught.

Its eyes are a hurricane, color and light and silhouette and shadow. Gerry measures out each motion, watches the way Michael’s body begs for more, pulls him in with every press. He’s stained with wet light down to the wrist, and the sheets are frankly beyond the pale.

Gerry is panting, now, every breath harsh, “You’d better wait for me.” He orders as he draws his fingers back.

Michael whines its protest. Its hands claw uselessly into the air. Gerry watches them lengthen and grow sharper.

“Don’t make me ask about them.” Gerry warns, “You won’t like it.”

Michael freezes, chest heaving, “Do not.”

“Be good.” He commands simply. And then, almost as an afterthought, “And make me something I can ride.”

Michael musters the strength for a small, reverberating laugh, “‘Something’, bookburner? Not very picky of you.”

Gerry slides a thigh over one of Michael’s to let it feel the slick heat of his own cunt against its skin, “Seem like I’m feeling picky?”

Michael makes a noise somewhere between a groan and sheet metal clattering. Its hands spasm, as if to reach for him. The bonds catch once more, and it growls. Gerry watches its figure obediently convolute.

What it offers him is, if he’s honest, more than good enough. It’s the perfect length (Gerry wonders if, perhaps, Michael knows him better than anticipated), dripping steadily enough that the light of it makes Gerry squint as his eyes adjust. Pleasantly thick, with a shifting ridge along the underside.

“That’ll work.” He exhales.

Gerry shifts his weight until he’s positioned himself above Michael, tantalizingly close, but not quite enough to allow it to touch him. He lays a hand on its stomach, feels it tense beneath his palm. The other he returns to its throat.

“You still remember where this is, don’t you?”

Michael chokes its affirmation.

“Good.”

The cry it lets out when he pushes himself down over it makes his bones shiver. Gerry curses under his breath. His hips move slowly, at first, seeking. Michael mewls in his grip. Its head drops back into the pillows, an invitation that Gerry eagerly accepts by cinching his fingers tighter around its throat.

What it’s saying aren’t words anymore. Its lips are moving, but what comes from between them is barely sound. Colors, maybe. Sensations. Brief pulses of emotion that shudder through Gerry with alarming force. His pulse jumps when he realizes, belatedly, that it’s begging.

Gerry nudges his hips into motion once more, this time quicker, with purpose. Whatever is inside him moves, and Gerry cries out as it finds that tense, urgent place within him. For a moment, his head lolls down with pleasure. There’s still light there, at the place where they’re joined, at the place where Michael is inside him. Faint, to be sure, but when Gerry runs his fingers over the space beneath his navel, he can still see it there, through his skin.

“Oh, Michael.” He gapes, “Michael, fuck.”

Something possessive within him roars to life at the sight of it, at this small reminder that Michael’s body is here, is his this way. Gerry wrenches his hips down over it until the full length of it is buried within him. Michael howls in technicolor.

He takes it like an act of nature. Destructive, unavoidable, unflagging. The knuckles of the hand around its neck have gone white. He can feel it forcing itself deeper into his grasp to glory in the sensation.

“Good.” He grates as his hips thrash, “Good boy.”

A droplet of something wet and iridescent grazes his cheek.

Gerry brushes it away with his shoulder. He looks down to search Michael’s face, only to find it utterly incomprehensible.

“Michael.” He orders, “...Look at me.”

Its face jerks back into focus, glassy-eyed. Another droplet gathers at the corner of one eye, beads and falls upward to spatter against Gerry’s temple. He can’t make sense of what comes from its mouth, the taste of stillness, but he can see the shape it makes with its lips: ‘Again.’

He cups its jaw with his free hand, tilts its chin up to meet its gaze, “Good boy.” He repeats, softer this time, “Good boy, Michael.”

Its eyes are blue, remarkable in their unremarkability. It watches him, breathless, as he finds their rhythm once more. Gerry can feel its body tightening under him, feels his own beginning to clutch around it.

“With me.” He pants, and then he’s undone.

They aren’t there. They aren’t anywhere. For a moment, that’s it; they’re it. Only them. Only the way that Gerry’s body clamps down and spasms and seizes. Only the way that Michael fills him with something so incandescent that it hurts Gerry’s eyes. Only the sound of its moan, shattered and animal and beautiful, a bomb blast, a symphonic conflagration that leaves his nose bleeding. Gerry clings to Michael as unreality surges and bursts around them. There’s color and brightness and then, finally, nothing at all.

He’s collapsed on its chest when he comes to. A few long fingers card carefully through his hair. Gerry groans and smears a hand over his eyes.

“Michael?”

“Yes, my bookburner?”

Gerry pulls himself up along its body until he can press a scattered handful of slow kisses to its mouth. Michael purrs against his lips.

“Y’okay?” Gerry grunts.

“No.” It answers confidently.

“Right.” He nips just beneath its ear, “But the same kind of not okay, right?”

“Mmm.” Michael rumbles. The stark bruises along its throat seem to undulate and curl.

Gerry shifts closer, weaving his arms around its waist, “You’re staying.”

“That isn’t a very good question.” It murmurs as it shifts onto its side to press back against his chest.

Gerry presses his nose into its shoulder, “Good thing it’s not a question.”

The silence that follows is a blanket drawn close around them. There will be time, later, for Gerry to shower. To wash away the blood on his face. To consider how to hide the glowing stains on his hands, between his legs. But here, now, there’s this. There’s them. Gerry presses a hand to Michael’s chest, and its irregular heartbeat thuds beneath his palm.

**Author's Note:**

> y'all come yell about technicolor monsterfucking with me at clutchhedonist.tumblr.com


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